


monsters are always hungry, darling

by MsImpala67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Play, Bottom Dean, Canon Divergence, Dark, Dirty Talk, Flogging, Knife Play, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Restraints, Rough Sex, Top Sam Winchester, Wax Play, Wincest - Freeform, blood junkie!sam, breath play, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsImpala67/pseuds/MsImpala67
Summary: Dean is alive. There’s air in his lungs, blood in his muscles, pushing him toward Sam. Toward home.He knows Sam’s waiting.But he doesn’t know what Sam’s been doing while he was dead, and the demon blood at the corners of Sam’s lips almost makes him wish he was dead again.Almost.Dean will save him. Dean will get Sam addicted to him again.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean isn’t sure how long it’s been. Too damn long. Long enough for him to get to the gas station. Long enough for him to steal a ride. Long enough to convince Bobby he was really himself, track down Sam, drive back to Illinois where he never wanted to be again.

And now all that stands between him and Sam is a motel room door.

And it’s taken too long to get here. 

His skin is vibrating, his heart slamming as he knocks, not sure what he’s expecting or what he wants to say when Sam opens it.

Turns out, he doesn’t need to think about it. The “Hey, Sammy” comes out like it’s been on his tongue since he woke up under the earth, like it’ll be the last thing on his tongue when he dies and doesn’t come back, simply because Sam will be there in his Heaven, waiting for him.

Dean isn’t surprised by Sam’s attack, doesn’t try too hard to stop it. He can’t look away from his baby brother’s hardened eyes as they crack open and flood the room with their rage, with their roaring anguish and the tiny bit of raw hope bleeding through even as he pulls a knife.

“I know,” Dean says, watching as Bobby holds him back. “I look fantastic.”

It’s not the words that melt and break Sam. It’s the smirk, and they both know it. It’s been part of them since they were children, since before either of them really understood things like smirking. Only Dean, the _real_ Dean, could make that kind of joke with that kind of arrogance while staring with so much hunger.

Sam’s body slams into him so hard it hurts. Dean wishes it hurt more, wants to keep that stinging in his skin for as long as possible. Sam whimpers in Dean’s ear, a small and broken noise. It cuts through the dirt still clinging to Dean’s neck and slices him through, his heart flayed wide open as he clings to Sam, to the burning heat of his body.

Bobby clears his throat after a few seconds, shuffles his feet and makes some half-ass attempt at words, excusing himself before he leaves them alone. Dean doesn’t pretend he’s listening. The only thing that exists right now is Sam.

The second the door closes, Sam reaches out to stroke the back of his knuckles down Dean’s face. Dean closes his eyes and leans into it like he never left. Or like he left and came back, like they are exactly this desperate for each other, exactly this in awe of being with each other again, _exactly_ in this moment.

Sam lets out another sound, this one more of a sob than a whimper, and his mouth is on Dean’s so hot and wet and forceful that Dean gasps, coughs a little against Sam’s lips before he finds his rhythm.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam moans, and it probably just sounds like a noise if anyone else could hear it, but Dean can always recognize his name in Sam’s mouth.

Dean nods and pulls Sam toward the bed.

“Can I?” Sam asks, pulling his mouth away, replacing that contact by pressing his forehead against Dean’s.

“God, yes, Sammy,” Dean pants. “Need you.”

“How did. I don’t. What-”

“Shhh.” Dean grabs at Sam’s hair and pulls him back into a kiss, dropping both of them onto the bed. “I’m right here, Sam. Right here.” He pulls Sam’s hand over his thudding heart, sucking in a breath when Sam’s fingers curl into a clawing grip.

“But how?”

“I don’t know. But can we figure it out later?”

Sam’s lips turn up the tiniest bit and Dean settles back into the scratchy motel sheets. The weight of Sam’s body is heavy and achingly familiar and more comforting than anything Dean can conceive of. His eyes sting with tears when Sam kisses him again, one hand on his face, the other still clutching his shirt, right over his beating heart.

The kiss breaks with a string of spit as Sam turns frantic, quick sharp kisses to Dean’s chin, his jaw, his neck, his eyelids.

“You were gone.” Sam starts to shake. “You were gone and I couldn’t feel you anymore. I didn’t…it was…”

Dean shushes him again, but doesn’t try to soothe him, because he needs it, too. He gives as good as he gets, arching up against Sam’s body, helping Sam when he rips his shirt to get it off.

Fuck, he’s missed Sam’s hands, the way they cover so much of his skin, the way they grab and dig into Dean’s sides, the way they claim Dean as _theirs_. Dean forgets that there’s more to come for a moment and drifts along with it, lets his cock swell hard and fast at the feel of Sam’s fingertips on his ribs. His cock doesn’t seem to have missed a single beat despite his absence, not that it’s surprising. If any part of Dean’s body is attuned to Sam, it’s that one.

And then Dean’s on his stomach, jeans shoved down and out of the way, Sam’s large hands on his hips, pulling up and up until he’s bent in half on his hands and knees, ass presented for the whole room to see. And still only for Sam.

“I missed you.” Sam mumbles the words into the back of Dean’s neck, only allowed to say them because they aren’t looking at each other, because it’s easier this way.

Dean shudders and presses his weight back into Sam, just a little, a silent _I missed you, too._

“Missed you so much.” Sam’s voice is harder now, stronger, more certain. “Missed you under me. Missed the way you sound and the way you taste.”

Dean groans when teeth scrape over his shoulder, hot and quick breaths over his skin. “Sammy…”

“Never gonna let you go again. _Never_.”

“Never,” Dean echoes, squeezing his eyes shut like that will ease the pressure and help stop his blood from pumping right out of his veins.

Sam pushes two fingers in dry, and Dean doesn’t mind the burn, knows that pain is part of the pleasure, always has been with the two of them. The sting is life, it’s nerves working and skin stretching and it’s Sam inside of him, Sam’s fingerprints back exactly where they should be.

Fuck, it feels good, makes him jerk and tremble as Sam thrusts in and out, opening him up, getting him ready. Dean plants his face in the bed and whines, tries to push out all the sensations through his voice because he might explode if he tries to take it all in.

And then Sam’s cock, slick with spit, pushes against his hole. Dean recognizes ever curve of it, the exact shape, the exact heat and weight of it.

“C’mon, Sammy. Want it.”

Dean can almost hear Sam’s grin, probably a little softer than his usual smirk at times like this given the current situation, but he knows it’s there. He can feel it in the light touch of Sam’s fingers teasing his hips.

A goddamn heavenly choir might as well be singing as Sam pushes in, slides home and buries himself in Dean until their bodies are smashed together, not even room for air between them, the way the like it. The way they _need_ it.

“Fuck yeah,” Sam grunts, too lost in the physical feeling of it to be eloquent. “Missed this so fucking much, Dean.”

His thrusts are hard and loud, feral as they smack up into Dean, practically rearrange his insides and stretch them out again, adjust them to Sam’s cock instead of the new tightness Dean came back with. Dean cries out with each one, pushes back as hard as Sam pushes forward, wants him deeper, wants Sam to crawl under his skin and stay there forever.

“Not gonna last long.” Dean feels a drop of Sam’s sweat drop onto his back as he moans the words.

“Me neither.”

There are no more words. Sam grinds into Dean as fast as he can, arms wrapped around him until it hurts as much as the rest of this, hurts so good that Dean lets a few tears fall. He blames them on the sting of Sam claiming his ass. They both feel it building, then both come at the same time, loud and sweaty and shaking. Sam smothers Dean down into the bed as he collapses, body wracking with each pulse, filling Dean up with all that wet heat.

Dean’s sticky with his own come, cock jumping over and over again with each of Sam’s tremors, emptying out like it’s been building for all these months.

“Fuck, Dean. Never thought we’d get to…” He rests his head in the bend of Dean’s neck. “Fuck.”

Dean squirms around, rolls over to his stomach, but pulls Sam’s cock back inside while it’s still hard. He wants to feel him inside while he looks at him.

They kiss again, as tender as it is violent, Dean’s hands in Sam’s damp hair like they never left and will never leave again.

That’s how they fall asleep, connected in every possible way. 

********

Dean wakes up to an empty room. He checks the bathroom, then calls Sam’s cell phone, frowning when it goes straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Sammy, where’d you go? We aren’t done yet, are we? I thought we were just taking a nap until we could get it up again. Call me back.”

He calls again a few minutes later, no laughter in his voice this time.

“Sam, call me back. Just, uh. Just want to know where you are.”

There’s nothing on tv, not that Dean wants to watch anything, anyway. But it would have been a nice distraction for a couple of seconds. Maybe.

The old digital clock changes as the minutes pass, and Dean gets more anxious with each one, goes from pacing to sitting rigid to pacing again, calling Sam over and over, disappointment fresh each time he doesn’t answer.

Where the fuck is he?

Dean’s tucking his gun into the back of his jeans and looking for a boot that’s gone missing, determined to find Sam wherever he is, when the lock in the door turns. The rush of relief is so great Dean’s knees almost buckle. But the second Sam comes in, totally nonchalant with a bag of fast food, the relief turns to anger.

“Where the hell were you? Why’s your phone off?”

Sam blinks at him. “What?”

“Your phone! You left and didn’t have your phone on. Where the hell were you?”

“Nowhere. Getting food.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just do that, man. I. I didn’t know where you were.”

Sam drops the bag on the table and reaches out, a lazy arm circling around Dean’s waist. “Sorry. I didn’t think. I’m fine.”

Dean nods, takes a deep breath to calm himself down. And then he feels it. He’s not sure what exactly it is. Just something off. Something not quite Sam.

He looks carefully and sees the haze in Sam’s eyes, the total lack of tension in his muscles.

“What happened to you?”

Sam’s brow furrows, and the movement is too slow. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“You were gone for a while, you turned off your phone, and now you’re…what is it?”

Dean probably shouldn’t be blurting things out so honestly, but he doesn’t really have the patience for anything else right now. He needs Sam, and he needs him to be totally normal.

Sam pulls away and sits down, picks a french fry out of the bag like he needs something to do other than look at Dean. There’s a bloodstain on his finger.

“What is that?” Dean points.

Sam pulls his hand inside the sleeve of his sweatshirt, but he’s already been caught, and his expression turns guilty. “It’s not mine.”

Dean has no idea what that means, but the sinking feeling in his gut is telling him it’s nothing good. “Were you hunting? Because you don’t have to do that alone, and you definitely don’t need to lie about it.”

Sam swallows hard and looks at his feet. “I wasn’t hunting.”

“So, what then?”

“It’s demon blood.”

Dean has never heard that tone of voice before. It’s guilty, a confession, but Dean doesn’t get it. It’s also flat, the tone Sam uses when he wants to shut the conversation down.

“Explain.” Dean hates the _big brother_ in his voice, the hard accusation, but he can’t help it, and he knows Sam won’t respond to anything else.

And Sam just melts. He leans forward, puts his head in his hands, one shuddery sob escaping before he looks up, eyes tortured under the messy strands of hair that have fallen in the way. “I got demon blood on my hand while I was drinking it. That’s where I went tonight. I went to find a demon so I could drink their blood.”

Dean laughs. He doesn’t quite get the joke, but he knows Sam’s not serious, so he laughs.

Sam’s eyes well up with tears he blinks away.

Dean stops laughing.

“What. What are you talking about?”

The words pour out of Sam then, small and scared as Dean staggers back a couple of steps in horror. “I was so fucking lost, Dean. I watched you die. I buried you. I put your body in the ground and covered it over and had to just leave you there, and I didn’t…I couldn’t…I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Demon blood?” Dean still isn’t sure he’s hearing right. This can’t be what Sam’s actually saying.

“It helped. It made me strong. It makes me…I _need_ it, Dean. I’m so sorry.”

Sam falls out of the chair and crawls to Dean, tugs on the bottom of his shirt and begs. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. You gotta help me. I can stop. _I know I can stop_.”

Dean sees it then, the strange color in Sam’s eyes. The junkie tremor in his hands. The awful fear in his voice.

He pushes Sam’s hands away, fumbles outside into the night, still missing a boot. He can hear Sam still crying on the other side of the door, but he can’t go back.

 _This_ is what he came back for? This is what Sam did while he was gone? It’s more than betrayal. It’s desecration, a violation of all that was sacred between them.

Breathing in deep, the fresh air doesn’t clear his head or ease the pounding in his brain. Dean makes it to the bushes at the side of the motel before he vomits, heaving up acid and bile from his empty stomach, hot tears streaking his face as sweat breaks over his forehead.

He kneels there, chest moving while the rest of him hangs weak and limp, trying to force himself into numbness.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to come back.

“Please don’t leave me, Dean.”

Sam’s huge, bigger than he was when Dean died. An adult. A lethal killer. But those words sound like the words of a child, helpless and alone.

And Dean’s whole world cracks again when he realizes he isn’t going anywhere. Whatever dark hole Sam’s in, whatever path he’s put himself on, he made the decision for Dean, too. Dean won’t leave. He’ll either save him or go down with him, because that’s the promise he made.

He pulls himself to his feet and turns around, unable to look Sam in the face just yet.

But he walks back to the room, can hear Sam following him, and that will have to be enough reassurance for his little brother tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s several days before Dean can handle touching Sam again.

He wants to. Fuck, he wants to. After everything that happened, all Dean wants to do is wrap himself around Sam so close that the universe can’t tell which of them is which. Can’t rip them apart ever again.

But he keeps seeing the blood on Sam’s finger and the haze in his eyes, and he can’t do it.

Not until he has a plan.

It hits him on a dark interstate at three in the morning, headlights blinding him every few minutes when he meets a semi-truck. Maybe touching Sam _is_ the answer.

Sam said he needed the demon blood because Dean was gone. Well, Dean’s back. And maybe he just needs to give Sam time to realize that.

Dean pulls off the interstate and into the closest motel, making quick work of checking in while Sam wakes up and grabs their bags from the car. It’s so easy to slip back into this, this easy routine they’d built before. Sam’s waiting with a duffel slung over each shoulder when Dean comes out of the office holding a key and points to the corner room at the end of the building.

The second Sam drops his stuff on the bed, Dean slides up behind him and wraps his arms around that huge body, palms flat on Sam’s stomach, his nose buried between Sam’s shoulder blades.

Sam stiffens, then relaxes, puts his hands over Dean’s and squeezes.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Shh. Don’t. It’s okay.”

Sam turns around, puts Dean’s arms back around him and bumps their foreheads as he leans in. “It is?”

“Well, no. But it will be. We’re gonna fix this.”

“I want to stop.”

“I know you do. I’m gonna help you.”

“How?”

Dean hates the new smallness in Sam’s voice. The fear in it.

“You’re gonna use _me_.”

Sam’s eyes go wide and his lips part, asking a silent question. Dean moves forward, gently pushes Sam until he’s on the bed, scooting back against the pillows while Dean climbs over him.

“Tell me,” Dean skates his fingers over the hem of Sam’s shirt, letting his fingers graze the hot skin beneath, “how did it make you feel?”

“Dean…I don’t…”

Dean finds the trail of hair under Sam’s bellybutton, drags his finger down to where it disappears beneath Sam’s jeans. “Did it make you feel powerful? Strong? Like you were in control?”

Sam arches up into Dean’s hands, biting his lip as he nods. He looks away like he’s ashamed.

“Don’t do that, Sammy. It’s okay. You don’t have to feel guilty or embarrassed.” He leans down and kisses the path his fingers traveled, tongue tasting the salt of Sam’s skin and making his cock swell. “Not like it’s the first time one of us has fucked up.”

“What are you doing?” Sam isn’t talking about Dean’s mouth on him.

“You’re going to use me, Sam. I can give you what you need.”

Sam tugs Dean’s hair to get him to look up. “You _are_ what I need. Always have been.”

The words burn through Dean. He leans down and sucks at Sam’s hipbone, tugging the blue jeans down and out of the way so he can bite at it, eyes squeezing shut against how much it hurts to be back where he belongs, how fucking much it all is.

It’s hard to rip himself away, but he does, long enough to sit up and look Sam in the eyes. “Fuck me.”

Sam sucks in a gasp and nods, fingers already scrabbling to pull Dean down into the bed. Dean lets him, goes easily under his baby brother as they flip and roll. He spreads his legs as Sam nudges between his thighs, their cocks straining through their jeans to find each other, hot and thick and full of the same blood.

“Wait.” Dean puts a hand on Sam’s chest and stops him from leaning down for a kiss. “Really, Sammy. Fuck me. Use me. Do whatever you need to do to get that feeling, to be in control. Doesn’t matter how rough.”

“Dean, I don’t know, that feels-”

“C’mon, Sammy.” Dean flashes the grin he knows will work. “You like it rough. Always have. All those dark fantasies? Let’s have ‘em.”

He grinds his hips up into Sam’s and watches the blood rise in Sam’s face. Sam fights it, but the darkness creeps back in his eyes and Dean knows he’s won.

“I might hurt you,” he warns.

Dean means every word when he answers. “I might want you to.”

They kiss for a while, biting and sucking kisses that taste like blood and how much they missed each other, that taste like the salt of Sam’s tears and the dirt Dean was buried under. Sam gets wilder with every push of his tongue, writhing on top of Dean, fingers pinching, teeth snapping, growls rumbling out of him.

Dean thought Sam might become someone else tonight, thought he might not recognize him anymore if he truly let go. But it’s still Sam doing all those things, and that might scare Dean more.

“Whatever you need,” Dean encourages.

Sam sheds their clothes without paying too much attention to it, like it’s a chore instead of foreplay. And then he attacks.

Dean’s never felt Sam’s skin so hot, never seen him so desperate, like he isn’t aware of what he’s doing, like he’s acting on instinct alone. It’s scary and unsettling, and it’s also incredible. There’s nothing between them, their skin barely a barrier as Sam slams down on him, mouth and hands everywhere, tearing into Dean. Dean tries not to imagine those teeth breaking the skin of a demon, tries not to imagine the noises Sam makes when he drinks blood, but he can’t help but wonder if they’re the same.

When Dean’s stretched open and Sam’s slicked up, pushing against Dean’s hole, he stops, hesitantly looks at Dean.

“Anything,” Dean says. “I mean it. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. Take it.”

Carefully, Sam pushes up to his knees, Dean’s legs draped over his thighs, and runs his hands up Dean’s chest. It’s too soft, something dark and dangerous quivering just under Sam’s skin, and Dean takes a deep breath to brace himself for whatever is about to come.

The breath is cut off by Sam’s hands on his neck, squeezing just a little at first, then harder and harder, pressing firmly until Dean can’t get any air in his lungs.

Sam’s arms are rigid, like he’s holding himself back, like what he really wants is to crush Dean’s windpipe. And as he’s quite literally stopping the air in Dean’s lungs, he slides his cock into Dean’s ass.

Dean tries to cry out, lets out only a squeak of a noise as Sam slams into him as deep as he can get.

His cock is so hard it hurts.

Sam watches carefully, thrusts only a few times before he loosens his grip. He keeps his hands on Dean’s throats, thumbs gently stroking over the fingerprints he’s made there, but he doesn’t squeeze. The air rushes back into Dean’s lungs and he gasps and coughs, brain going fuzzy with the rush of chemicals.

“Dean?”

“Do it again,” he croaks, clenching his ass around Sam’s cock.

Sam smirks, fully in control now, and the change in him feels like relief, feels like an answered prayer to Dean. This is good. This is helping. This is what Sam needs.

And maybe it’s what Dean needs, too.

He closes his eyes as Sam starts to move faster, brutal pushes of his hips as his hands close again, closing off Dean’s windpipe. Like every time he closes his eyes, the flashes are there, the torture and the screams. But the harder Sam fucks into him, the harder he squeezes, the harder it is for Dean to breathe, the visions fade. It’s just the burning pressure in his ass, it’s just the heat of Sam’s skin, the grip of his own fingers on Sam’s wrists as he wonders how long Sam’s going to do this.

Sam lets go again, and Dean’s high buzzes through his body, his cock jumping again. This time, Sam notices.

“You like that,” he says. It’s teasing. Sam’s not scared anymore, not desperate, not thinking about anything outside of this room that he might be missing.

It takes a minute for Dean to find his voice, Sam’s hips rolling the whole time, keeping him spread open and stuffed full. “I do.”

“Good. You’re gonna take more of it. And you’d better not come, because I’m not even close to finished with you yet.”

Dean groans and nods, reaches down to give his own cock a couple strokes before Sam slaps his hand away. And then he can’t breathe again. Then, Sam’s face is hovering above him, hard and angled, taking what he wants. Dean goes limp and gives it to him, takes in all the sensations and lets them settle in all his darkest places, lets himself use this every bit as much as Sam is.

“Fuck, Dean. I can’t…I want to…”

Sam lets go and Dean breathes again, floating as his body reels.

Sam’s head is buried in his neck then, hot words growled right against his ear between the slaps of Sam’s cock, so deep in his ass Dean wonders that he can’t feel it in his guts, in his throat.

“I want to fucking destroy you,” Sam snarls. “Wanna tear your ass up, want to choke you while I do it so you can’t protest or stop me. Wanna keep going until it hurts you. Until it fucking _hurts_.”

The words are frightening and too real, too sincere. Dean starts to shake, unable to respond or push Sam away because he still _feels_ so good, no matter what words come out. Dean still needs to be fucked this way, and he curls his legs around Sam and pulls him in deeper.

Sam moves faster, still spewing violence from his mouth, violence that turns Dean on, makes his cock swell fatter than it ever has where it’s trapped between their stomachs.

“Fuck, Dean, so fucking good.”

Dean coughs once and gets his voice working again. “Fuck me harder. Do it. Split me open and make me take it.”

Sam groans and angles his hips, going deeper, hitting the exact right spot inside Dean to make stars explode behind his eyes. Or maybe that’s still just the lack of oxygen.

“Choke me,” Dean croaks. “Make me come while you choke me.”

Sam pushes himself back up, slaps his hands down on Dean’s throat with a snort that might be a laugh and might be a moan.

“Not yet. Wait until I tell you.”

Dean goes still as Sam keeps fucking him, hands squeezing harder and harder. Sam stares at him, hips grinding, but none of it is for Dean now. It’s all for himself, rutting and thrusting like an animal in heat until Dean can feel him start to pulse in his ass.

“Now,” Sam grunts.

Dean’s dick jerks on command. Sam lets go and Dean takes an involuntary breath, certain he’s going to pass out from just how _fucking good_ this is. His whole body bows and bends and thrashes as he comes, streaking over his stomach, covering Sam’s fingers when he reaches down to work him through it. But he doesn’t make a noise. He can’t. It’s all in his head, roaring and screaming and breaking pieces of him apart.

Sam glues them back together with his kisses. They lie there until the sun comes up, Sam still buried inside of Dean, licking over the fingerprints on Dean’s neck like a wolf licking the wound of one of its pack.

“How do you feel?” he finally asks.

Dean turns his head and forces his eyes to focus, forces himself to come back down to earth. “Good. That was…that was…”

Sam grins, understanding without words like he always does.

“How do _you_ feel?”

Slowly, Sam pulls out of Dean and rolls to the side, pulling Dean with him. They stare at each other in the dim glow of the morning.

“Calm. I feel calm.”

Dean can see the satisfaction in Sam’s face, the relaxation in every muscle. Sharp relief cuts through his sex haze and he closes his eyes before he gives himself away.

He wakes up alone.

It’s sunset now, the soft glow of the morning on the other side of the room now, just as dim and comforting, caught between day and night, caught between waking and dreaming.

Dean knows before he gets out of bed that it didn’t work. Or at least, it didn’t work completely.

He doesn’t call Sam this time. He doesn’t want to hear the voicemail message doesn’t want to give Sam time to try and come up with some excuse, not that he will.

Sam comes in just as it gets dark, and he doesn’t look at Dean while he takes off his shoes and drops into a chair.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s empty. Hollow.

Dean stands up, as angry at himself as he is at Sam.

This is his job. Taking care of Sam.

And he’s never left a job unfinished.

He gets up, drops a hand on the back of Sam’s head. “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t have the energy for more than that, so he heads to the shower, hoping Sam’s still there when he gets out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam’s close to giving in to his withdrawals. There’s too much distance with him leaning against the passenger window, and Dean can hear everything in his silence, the way he keeps his hands in the pockets of his hoodie so Dean won’t see them shaking.

“You ready to stop for the night?”

Sam grunts a noise that’s probably a yes and doesn’t sit up, doesn’t make any move that might take him closer to Dean.

When they’re in a room, another in the line of motels that all feel the same to them, Dean drops his stuff at the foot of the king-sized bed.

“One bed?” Sam asks, sounding a little nervous.

“S’that a problem?” Dean doesn’t mean to sound so sarcastic and mean, but he’s talking to the blood in Sams veins, the thing that’s trying to take Sam away from him, and _fuck that thing_.

“Dean.”

The sigh that comes out of Dean is weary, but his body relaxes into Sam’s as he pulls him close. “It’s okay. You don’t have to go. You don’t need it.”

Sam winces.

“Really,” Dean tells him. “We just have to get you through the night. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Are you really giving me ‘one day at a time’ bullshit?”

“Looks like,” Dean grins. “Working?”

Sam narrows his eyes. “That depends on your plan.”

Dean steps back, puts some distance between them, and strips out of his clothes. He moves slowly, purposefully, letting Sam watch and see that it’s all for him. That he can do whatever he wants.

When he’s completely naked, he stands there, arms at his sides, exposed for Sam. It’s unnerving, with Sam still clothed, too intimate and vulnerable for Sam to stare at him with that kind of heat in his eyes.

“Don’t have a plan,” he admits. “Gonna let you do whatever you want to me. Whatever you need.”

Sam doesn’t move, not really, but something changes. Maybe it’s his eyes, or maybe it’s the way his jaw clenches, or maybe it’s the way Dean can tell his muscles have all tensed. Whatever the reason, Sam looks _dangerous_ now.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Sam asks quietly. Too quietly.

Dean nods.

“Absolutely sure?” He kicks his shoes off and pads forward in his socks, eyes traveling down Dean’s chest, not stopping until they find his cock.

Dean swallows and nods again, blood rushing south, skin heating up.

“What if I want to taste _you_ instead of some demon?”

There’s a shudder in Dean’s spine, flashing out through the rest of him, cold tickles along his nerves that somehow burn more than the heat in his dick.

Sam’s behind him now, so close that Dean can almost feel him, but he doesn’t touch. Just gets close to Dean’s ear and whispers. “What if I want to bite into you? Drink _your_ blood instead? What if I want to throw you around like I do my demons? What if that’s what I need?”

Dean’s toes curl into the dirty carpet, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever been so hard for his brother. He also doesn’t know if he could possibly get more fucked up.

“Then do it.”

Sam’s moving before Dean finishes the sentence. Huge hands shove between Dean’s shoulder blades and force him on the bed, face down in the scratchy comforter. Dean doesn’t dare move while he listens to the sounds of Sam undressing, a belt buckle clink, piles of soft fabric hitting the floor. One hand is trapped beneath him, shoulders in a position that will definitely make him sore later, but he doesn’t care. This is where Sam put him, and Sam is in charge.

A slap hits the back of one of his thighs, followed immediately by a touch so gentle that the sting almost doesn’t register, that Dean’s body is instantly confused. He closes his eyes and waits, doesn’t try to hear where Sam’s moving, refuses to figure out Sam’s next move.

Teeth bite into the meat of his ass, hard, just this side of breaking skin. Sam moans like he’s eating a steak, like he’s some wild animal, and Dean goes limp beneath him, happy to be the prey no matter how painful his swollen cock is.

Another smack, this one right over the teeth marks, and Sam doesn’t soothe it afterward. The sting burns in the cool motel room air, and Dean hisses at it, wondering how much more he’s in for, wondering if he hopes it’s a lot.

Sam grazes his fingers down Dean’s spine, and Dean can imagine his face, part killer and part lover, brutal and devoted, still Sam even when Dean barely recognizes him.

“Dean.”

This time, Sammy is breaking through. He’s asking permission, asking for absolution and forgiveness that only Dean can give him.

Dean lifts his hips and offers his ass again, keeps his voice hard so that they don’t both break down. “I told you to do it.”

A quiet ragged breath against his skin, and then it’s Sam’s teeth again, scraping and biting all over his back, his hands digging into Dean’s flesh and pulling, one blink away from losing control and doing something he can’t take back.

“Fuck,” he growls, “I feel like my blood is on fire. Like I…like I need…”

“Fucking _do it_.”

Sam’s head dips then, nose pushing in hard between Dean’s cheeks, and he spits, right against Dean’s hole. Dean groans as Sam’s tongue touches him, spreads the spit around, tries to thrust inside and open him up.

Dean spreads his legs wider and pushes back, wanting Sam deeper, wanting more of that wet heat against his hole.

Sam slides two spit-slick fingers in and groans. “Let me in.”

“Always.”

Sam pushes hard, thrusts fast and deep and violent into Dean, scissoring his fingers as wide as they’ll go. “Is this what you had in mind?”

Dean wants more, loves the idea of Sam permanently marking his insides with his fingernails, but the tone of Sam’s voice keeps him cautious and silent.

“Do you really want to know who I am now? What the blood has turned me into? Because right now, I don’t really even care about getting you ready. All I want is to shove my cock inside you, fuck you until I get myself off.”

Dean reaches behind himself as best he can, twists his body until he can get at Sam’s hand and push it away. “Then do it.”

That seems to be his mantra tonight, repeating over and over for Sam to take what he needs. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s what Sam needs, and Dean doesn’t exactly mind getting fucked into a stupor by his baby brother.

Anything to get that tone out of Sam’s voice.

Dean doesn’t come out of his own haze to pay attention to the noises and movement behind him. There’s just a few seconds where Sam isn’t touching him, and then Sam’s cock is in his ass, sudden and completely, slick slide all the way to the base until Dean can feel Sam’s balls smashed against his body. Sam’s used lube, or maybe spit, but it doesn’t stop the burn from Dean being stretched open, not quite ready to take it all.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans.

Sam doesn’t move, waits for Dean to adjust, and Dean can feel him trembling, just barely hanging on.

“Move,” Dean insists, and Sam does.

Sam’s hips snap forward in the breath it takes Dean to grit the word out, and they don’t stop. He wraps an arm around Dean’s middle, pulling him even higher on his hands and knees and grinds deeper, ruts like an animal, until Dean’s just hanging on.

It’s not for Dean now, but it still hits every nerve, still makes Dean want to cry with how good even this is, how his whole body responds to Sam’s. Every drop of sweat, every scrape of Sam’s teeth, every slap of Sam’s hand on his skin makes his cock jump, makes him cry out in what can only be called pleasure, even when it’s painful.

He doesn’t mean to, but Dean comes before Sam does.

Sam’s hand wanders from his stomach to his dick, starts pumping in time with his thrusts, squeezing hard, and Dean just can’t stop himself. His balls draw up, his cock swells, and he’s spilling and pulsing all over Sam’s fingers, thick and hot as he screams through it, the sensations ripping through him like they never have.

Sam keeps fucking him, pulls his hand up to Dean’s mouth.

“Clean it up.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, sucks his own come off Sam’s fingers, tongue cleaning over Sam’s skin and between his fingers. He tastes Sam in his own come, tastes the sweat and salt that didn’t come from him, savors the way it tastes when he’s flavored with Sam.

Sam doesn’t pull his hand away, so Dean keeps sucking even after the come is gone, keeps giving Sam what he needs as he fucks into him.

Just as the throb in his ass starts to turn into the wrong kind of painful, Sam stutters and comes, falls down on Dean and pushes them both into the bed while he lets himself empty out.

He doesn’t move for a long time afterward, breathing against the back of Dean’s neck, bodies plastered together.

It’s like Dean can feel him changing, can feel the monster inside going back into his cage, can feel each breath calming down and bringing his Sammy back.

When he does pull away, he sits up and puts his head in his hands, his back to Dean.

“What?” Dean asks, sore and exhausted muscles forgetting their current state when he pushes himself up and over to the edge of the bed with Sam. “What is it?”

Sam shifts away just a tiny bit when Dean reaches out, and Dean’s stomach drops. “I hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

“I asked for it.”

Sam looks over at him with so much pain in his eyes it’s almost like Dean’s feeling it himself, slicing through his soul. “Does that matter? I…I’m…what’s wrong with me?”

Dean grabs Sam’s face and forces him to look up, struggling and winning when Sam tries to pull away. “Nothing you can’t fight. Nothing you can’t get over. You’ve just got to hang on a little while longer.”

Everything else Dean can think of to say sounds like a twelve-step program manual, so he shuts up and sits there, waits for Sam’s busy brain to work it all out.

But Sam’s still drowning in himself when he looks at Dean again. “I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t try to stop him as he gets up, pulls on his clothes and shoes, and leaves.

He won’t be back until the morning.

Dean falls back on the bed and closes his eyes, waits for the flashes to start. What he hasn’t told Sam, what he doesn’t want Sam to know, is that he needs this, too.

Sam’s not the only one with a monster. Hell left one of its own monsters in Dean, and he needs Sam to beat it out of him, fuck it out of him, to kill it. He needs to pay penance for all the things he can’t tell Sam he’s done, needs to save Sam and maybe even the score a little.

Dean needs to get up, needs to go after Sam and fight for him, convince him to come back to the room, to try something else, _anything_ other than what he’s out doing. But he doesn’t have the strength tonight.

Maybe they’re both too damaged now.

Maybe none of it can be put right.

Maybe all Dean can do is go to sleep and hope Sam’s there, any version of Sam, when he wakes up.


	4. Chapter 4

“Here.”

The large bag slides off of Dean’s arm and lands with a thud on the table. Sam glances up, eyes tired and a little feverish.

“What’s this?”

“Tonight’s experiment.”

Sam sighs and pushes the bag a couple of inches away without looking inside. “You can’t save me, Dean. You know what happened the other night.”

“I know,” Dean nods. “So we’re gonna keep trying.”

Sam scoffs and drinks his beer, gaze pointedly on the ballgame blaring from the television.

“Look. I need you to do this for _me_.” Dean’s chest tightens as he says the words. It’s too close to a confession, too close to the whole story that he isn’t ready to tell yet, not even to Sam.

“What? You aren’t the one who’s fucked up.”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh with absolutely no humor, plopping himself down on the edge of the bed. “Not too sure about that, Sammy. I was in Hell, remember?”

Sam’s eyes flicker over to Dean, then thoughtfully narrow as he turns off the television. “What was it like?”

“Hot.”

“Seriously, Dean.”

“Seriously? Okay, I _seriously_ don’t want to talk about it. But I need this. I need…I don’t even know how to explain it. I need you to fix me.”

“And me throwing you around like I’m some kind of animal is gonna fix you? Taking out my withdrawals on your ass is gonna fix you?”

Dean shrugs and gives the best cocky grin he can muster. “It might.”

Sam stares at him for a long minute, tongue pressed against his teeth and knuckles white around his beer bottle. “I get it,” he finally says. “Something’s inside you. Something wrong. And you want me to get it out.”

Dean nods, trying his best to keep his brain out of the pit, out of those memories.

Sam gives a dry smile. “I can relate.”

“Then open the bag.”

Sam sighs heavily and pulls one strap of the bag, peeks in like he’s afraid of what he might find. He pulls out a few long ropes that look like they’ve been in the trunk of the Impala for longer than the two of them have been alive. Then he pulls out a flogger.

“ _That’s_ brand new. Bought it this morning,” Dean says, casually, like he’s talking about groceries.

Sam turns the flogger over in his hands, eyeing the wooden handle, the braided leather tails. Dean watches as the _thing_ takes over, as Sam lets his craving for blood turn into a craving for Dean instead. His shoulders square up as he flicks his wrist into the air, testing the toy out.

Dean shivers at the sight of it, of Sam wielding it like he’s a master.

“Get undressed and get on the bed.”

Dean hurries to do as he’s asked, not bothering to put on a show or drag the time out. The room is a little cold, goosebumps rising on his skin, but he guesses it won’t be long before he’s sweating, skin burning hot with the sting of whatever Sam plans to do to him.

Sam stays seated while Dean gets on the bed and lies down on his back. He looks lost in his own head, in that place where not even Dean can reach him, staring at the flogger like it’s more than just wood and leather.

Dean waits him out, breath coming faster and cock swelling harder every second that Sam stays silent. When he stands up, his muscles slink like an animal’s, dangerous and graceful as he steps out of his shoes and pulls his shirt off. Dean watches him, stares at all that perfect skin he knows by feel and by touch.

Sam takes his time unraveling the ropes and carrying them to the bed, and Dean’s whole body is rigid with anticipation by the time Sam finally touches him, leans down to plant one small kiss to his mouth, then one small kiss to the head of his cock, almost like he’s giving thanks before a meal.

The ropes are rough, not meant to rub across naked skin. Sam ties his ankles first, knotting the rope around the legs of the bed. Dean tries to bend his knees, knows immediately that if he moves much at all, his skin will be raw tomorrow. He isn’t sure if that’s a bad thing.

Next are his hands, and Sam makes quick work of tying them down the same way, tight enough that Dean can’t move, that he feels like he’s been put on a rack, and _fuck_. Something fucking _howls_ inside of him at that thought, starts clawing at his ribs like it’s going to tear itself free.

Sam leans down and kisses Dean one more time, hovers over him so their chests meet, so they can feel the warmth of skin on skin. His tongue is sweet and lazy, the kind of kiss they had before they. Before.

It shatters Dean a little, burns behind his eyes and in his throat as Sam stands up and looks down at him with hard eyes.

Sam doesn’t say a word.

Dean expects him to talk dirty, or announce what he’s about to do, or maybe even make Dean count the number of hits.

Instead, he just raises his eyebrows and waits.

Dean lets his dick throb one more time, then nods.

The first smack is quick, right on the meat of Dean’s stomach. It stings a little, raises a tiny red mark, one that Sam traces with his fingertip before pulling back and striking again, just beneath the first one.

Dean watches, completely mesmerized. Sam creates intricate patterns across his stomach and chest, crisscrosses lines, quick and sharp, painting his canvas. It’s not until he stands back, chest heaving, that Dean realizes Sam’s breathing hard, that the welts are progressively deeper.

That’s when the pain hits. It’s like Dean’s brain wasn’t registering it until that second, and the wave burns through him, makes him cry out as the ropes violently cut into his skin.

Sam watches him with an awestruck expression. “So goddamn beautiful,” he whispers.

The thing inside Dean growls louder, digs harder into Dean’s flesh to rip its way out.

Dean hurts, and it’s _so good_ , the pain radiating off his red, angry flesh, the sharp edges of the weight he carries flying away with it. There’s no more Hell, no more demon blood, only Sam and a flogger and a sensation that drives every other thing away.

“More,” he croaks.

This time, Sam goes for his thighs, marking the tender flesh there with the same detail, the same attention as his torso. Dean doesn’t watch his own skin blister this time. He watches Sam. Sam bares his teeth, arms and chest rippling as he whips the flogger, hair in his eyes, sweat pooling in the hollow of his neck. He’s so rigidly in control even as he lets go, quivering with the explosion he’s holding inside. Dean can see the swell of his erection in his jeans, watches his legs go a little loose with each movement, his eyes a little hazier.

Again, the pain surprises Dean when it finally makes it to his brain. He screams out another sound that would definitely end in the police being called if they were anywhere but a seedy motel meant for exactly these noises. He clutches and pulls on the rope, branding himself, branding Sam’s restraints into his wrists and ankles.

“You’re so hard. Ready to come?”

Dean shakes his head no. “Not until you fuck me.”

“What if I want you to come now? What if I want to make you come, then turn you over and fuck you while you’re soft? Tear up that ass while your skin’s on fire and your dick is sore?”

“Fuck, Sammy, wh-whatever you want.”

Sam leans down and licks over the angry welts on Dean’s chest, bites at his nipples until Dean’s back is arched and he’s practically sobbing.

“I’m gonna hit you one more time. And you’re going to come.”

Before Dean can nod or say yes or have any reaction at all, the flogger is flying through the air and landing right on his cock.

“Fuck,” Dean shouts, his body bowing, thighs jerking as much as the ropes will allow.

It’s the most painful, perfect release he’s ever felt.

The thing inside him explodes, claws free in an inhuman sound, flies out of his lungs, pulses hot and thick out of his cock in an orgasm that almost rips him apart. It lasts, and lasts, and lasts, until Dean’s wondering if this is it, if this is how he dies.

He knows that Sam will be in his Heaven when he gets there.

Eventually, he’s back on the bed, ropes still holding him down. His body feels wrung out and peaceful. So does his mind. There’s not a single thought beyond the perfect physical exhaustion, until the bed dips as Sam crawls onto it, and Dean remembers that this isn’t all about him.

The ropes are untied, Sam’s hands running over his legs and arms to soothe the muscles, but there’s no tension left in them to be soothed. Dean’s a ragdoll, rolling over easily when Sam nudges him, not moving at all as Sam opens him up with lubed fingers.

The first thrust is slow and easy, like Sam isn’t interested in how fast he can go tonight, but how deep instead. He buries himself in Dean and ruts there, grinds hard, Dean’s whole limp body screaming with every rub of the blankets against the marks on his chest.

Just like Sam promised, Dean’s cock is sore, his whole body used up, used too much, but Sam just keeps going, takes what he needs. What Dean still willingly gives him.

Dean’s not sure when Sam comes. At some point he realizes that it’s not lube soaking his hole, that Sam’s cock is only half-hard, but still inside Dean.

They drift off with Sam on top of him, hips still shallowly thrusting every now and then while they sleep.

It’s the sharp burn that wakes him up.

“Shhh,” Sam says. “I’ve got you.”

Sam. Sam’s _here_. He didn’t leave.

Dean blinks his eyes open, still feeling a little fuck-drunk, and looks up into Sam’s. Sam’s eyes are crystal clear. Sober.

“Here,” Sam says, carefully rubbing a hand over Dean’s stomach.

“Stop,” Dean argues, trying to push his hand away. “That hurts.”

“I know. I’m putting aloe on you. Just be still, okay?” His voice is gentle. Sweet.

Sammy.

Dean bites his lip and tries not to groan as Sam coats his skin in the aloe. The burn gives way to the cool, soothing lotion, and he lets out the breath he’s been holding. His body still feels wonderfully liquid.

“You okay?”

Dean thinks he’s grinning at Sam, hopes he’s grinning, but he can’t quite tell. “I’m great. You?”

Sam’s smile is real, and for a split-second, there’s not even any guilt in it. “Me too.”

Dean manages to melt into Sam’s side when he gets into bed, and they lie there awake, staring at each other in a way they’ve never really done before.

“I think we figured it out, Dean,” Sam whispers quietly.

“What?”

“You saved me.”

“How? The flogger?”

“No. Tonight happened because you needed it to. I took care of you. And I couldn’t leave afterward. You needed me to stay and make sure you were okay. I didn’t even want to go. Just wanted to help you.”

Dean smirks. “So as long as I need you, as long as I’m more fucked up than you, you can resist?”

Sam snorts a laugh. “It would seem so.”

Dean’s already half-asleep again when he answers. “Whatever works, Sammy.”


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a shockingly short time for Sam’s breakthrough to dissolve. The backslide into his shaking, fiending tantrums starts in just a couple of days, when the marks are just barely starting to fade from Dean’s body.

Again, Sam tries to hide it, but Dean feels it in the distance between their bodies as he drives. It’s always the giveaway, because the passenger window never feels Sam’s forehead pressed against it on a good day. 

“Don’t do this, Sammy,” Dean says, as soft and warm and non-confrontational as he can keep his voice when he’s this scared. “Talk to me.”

Sam’s eyes are so old, so tortured as they look over. “I want it,” he says simply. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Let’s just figure out how to get through the night, okay?”

There’s another excruciating silence. It lasts until they’re in a motel room, stretched out on a bed in the dark, only their shoes removed, bodies close but careful not to touch.

Dean hates himself for not knowing what to do.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you…”

Dean looks over at Sam, blinking up at the ceiling in the dark, face barely visible. “What? What do you need?”

“Can you tell me about Hell?”

Dean swallows and shakes his head. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“I know. I just. I want to understand. I wanna know how bad it is.”

“Why? It ain’t worse than what’s going on with you.”

Sam’s so beautiful, predator eyes narrowing so that Dean can barely see them, but can still feel them sliding over his own face, seeing everything in the dark black of the room. “I think it probably is.”

Dean says nothing for a long time, but neither of them fall asleep. Sam waits him out, maybe inches over until their arms are just barely touching, skin buzzing with the almost non-existent contact.

“It was…intense,” Dean finally says, voice choking back all the words that might be accurate and choosing the vaguest one instead.

“Intense? That’s it?”

“It. It did things. Made me do things. Made me a monster.”

That’s it. That’s all he can say. The flashes behind his eyes get too bright and he has to shut it all off, has to push that part of himself back down into the dark places inside himself that don’t ever see daylight, the parts that Dean will never let get to Sam.

Sam must hear some of the things Dean isn’t saying, because he doesn’t pry again. His hand, warm and huge, slides over and pushes under Dean’s shirts, right against the flat of his stomach. “You aren’t a monster.”

“Neither are you.”

Dean isn’t expecting Sam’s kiss to be so gentle, a little hesitant, like maybe Sam’s afraid of hurting him, or maybe he just wants to show Dean that he’s worthy of this kind of softness. Whatever the reason, Dean accepts the sweet touch, the slide of lips like they still find something new to appreciate after all these years, the soft breath on his face and the way Sam keeps his eyes open. His fingers tease at the edges of the marks on Dean’s skin, rubbing so gently Dean doesn’t feel the tenderness of the welts, just the tickle of Sam’s fingers, the safety of Sam on top of him, grounding him, protecting him.

The kisses last until Dean’s so hard he has to arch his body up, has to tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair and bite his bottom lip, breaking the love-drunk haze and turning things needier.

Sam pulls away, carefully tugs Dean’s shirts off. “Do these still hurt?”

Dean’s eyes follow Sam’s fingers over the marks. “No.”

“Do you need them to?”

It’s an honest question, no judgment or fear in Sam’s voice as he asks. His hands are steady when they’re on Dean’s body, and Dean relaxes a little when he realizes this is helping Sam as much as him.

“Yes.”

“Don’t move.” Sam gets out of the bed and grabs Dean’s keys. “Scratch that. Get up and get undressed. And grab some towels from the bathroom.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Gonna grab something from the car. Thirty seconds. A minute tops.”

Sam stays true to his word, and Dean is still grabbing towels when Sam comes back in, but it still feels too long for him to be gone, too long for him them to be apart.

Dean stands there naked, already loose and quiet, as Sam pulls all the covers off the bed and spreads the towels out over the bare mattress. “There. Lie down.”

It’s a strange frame of mind Dean’s in, to go blank, to give over control and let himself belong to someone else, let someone else tell him how to move and when to breathe, but Dean fucking loves it. He wants to be _this_ all the time, bare and Sam’s, no decisions to make, no past to haunt him, no future to worry about, just this and them and their bodies entwined like their souls always have been. Nothing else.

Just Sam.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat when Sam picks up the bag from the car and dumps out a shower of candles. He sets them up on the nightstand, on the dresser, on the small desk, anywhere there’s a flat surface. They’re unromantic candles, meant for spells and rituals, for light when their flashlights go out, for hunting. But when Sam lights them, they still flicker and dance through the room like they’re meant for lovers, golden light that turns everything soft and hazy around the edges, makes it all feel like a dream.

“You gonna get undressed, too?” he asks.

Sam raises a questioning eyebrow, edges of his mouth turning up in amusement at Dean requesting anything when he should be silently waiting.

Dean shrugs and grins. “I like looking at you, you know.”

Again, Dean notices how steady Sam’s hands are, how the hunger in his eyes has turned to the right kind of need, need for Dean instead of blood. He sheds any last traces of bloodlust with his clothes, and Dean almost comes right then, watching the flames cast shadows over Sam’s shoulders, watching his cock glow in the light as it hardens.

It hurts.

It’s all working. The longer they can keep this up, the more nights they have where he can get Sam to take it all out on him, the more the blood will seep out of Sam’s system. If they can just get through a little while longer, Sam won’t need it anymore. That was the whole point of this. That’s the only goal Dean has.

But it hurts. Sam’s cure is Dean reliving things that break cracks in his heart, in his soul, that tear apart who he is. Dean needs it as much as Sam does, knows that this is healing him, but it goes against every instinct he has. His whole being wants to push it away, lock it up, hide it from himself. And Sam is literally beating it out of him.

“You okay?” Sam asks, like Dean said all of it out loud.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly.

“We-we don’t have to.”

Dean can feel the waver in Sam, the fear that if they stop now, he might not make it through the night.

“Yes, we do. Please.”

Dean expects Sam to pull out the flogger, to reopen the wounds, deepen the welts, give Dean back some of the scars that were wiped clean by whatever brought him back.

Instead, Sam grabs a candle and carefully kneels on the bed next to Dean, holding it over Dean’s body like a challenge.

Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. As the oxygen fills his lungs, he lets himself remember, breaks open the dam and lets it flood him with all the evil things still inside him. They rest right under the surface of his skin, in the blood pumping through the pink marks Sam made.

When he opens his eyes, he’s ready. Ready for Sam to hurt him. To hurt the evil inside him. Ready for Sam to let himself loose here in this motel so he doesn’t do it somewhere else. With something else.

“Do it.”

The first tilt of the candle makes the flame flicker, and Dean watches the wax drip down and hit his skin. Nothing at first, then a searing heat, driving down into his body then immediately back out, like the flame itself is licking at him. The dull heat throbs afterward, red wax cooling on his skin in a dark line.

Sam stares at it, teeth bared, his own monster coming out to meet Dean’s.

Yes. This.

Dean’s cock jumps, his lips part with his gasp, fingers curling in the sheets.

This is what he didn’t even know he wanted.

Sam drips the candle again and again, hot, perfect pain on Dean’s skin until he’s begging for it, begging for more. When he manages to actually form words and ask for more, Sam stops, sits back on his heels and gives Dean a dangerous smile.

“You’d let me go as far as I wanted to, wouldn’t you?”

Dean nods with no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Careful what you wish for. You don’t know how that far it is.”

“Doesn’t matter.” And it really, truly doesn’t.

“Look at it.”

Dean takes a couple breaths to try to calm himself, then raises his head and looks at his body.

His torso is covered in dried wax, strips in the exact same pattern as the flogger marks. It’s every bit as detailed, done with every bit the same precision, like Sam’s created his own specific claiming mark and wants to make sure it’s always on Dean’s skin.

“Fuck, Sammy.”

Sam sets the candle on the nightstand, then leans down and kisses Dean’s throat, teeth scraping as he drags he kiss down to his chest. He tongues the lines of the wax, licking and kissing in and around the pattern, hands holding Dean still as he sucks at Dean’s hipbone.

“Thighs, too?” he mumbles.

Dean goes still. “Whatever you want.”

Sam grins. “That answer deserves a reward.”

 _Oh, God._ Sam’s tongue dips into the crease of Dean’s thigh, moves closer until it’s swirling around the base of Dean’s cock, wet and messy.

And then Sam’s swallowing him down, slow and lingering, making sure Dean feels his tongue, feels the suction, feels the heat of that perfect mouth.

“Sam,” Dean whines, trying his best not to move, not wanting to crack the wax until Sam tells him he can.

Sam bobs up and down a few times, enough to make Dean’s balls draw up tight, then pulls away.

“So good. You’re so good for me,” he praises, soothing his hands over Dean’s thighs as he reaches for the candle.

Dean’s eager this time, watching Sam’s hands, hoping he doesn’t come when the wax hits his thighs. Again, Sam follows the pattern, raising the welts once more with the wax burns, making the marks darken and last longer on Dean’s body.

Dean can’t wait to pull his jeans on tomorrow and feel the rough denim against the tender skin.

It stings and burns, each drip of fire bleeding into the next until Dean can’t really tell the difference between them, until he’s got his head back and his eyes closed and his mouth howling, his hips rigidly still, knowing they’ll buck if he relaxes even a tiny bit.

“Dean.” It’s not a question. It’s a declaration. Sam might as well have said _mine_ , might as well have permanently carved his own name in Dean’s chest under the wax.

Dean swallows hard and opens his eyes, meets Sam’s eyes in the soft glow, and stares. Something shifts, passes between them, something almost like peace, like comfort.

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” Sam tells him. “I’m gonna clean you up and we’re gonna lie here hard until sunrise.”

The hard tone makes Dean shiver, makes Dean want to exist right here in this exact level of desperation for the rest of ever.

Sam grabs some ice from their small beer cooler. Carefully, with reverent and patient hands, he slides it over the wax until its hard enough to peel off easily, leaving only the red marks behind.

Dean feels like they’re starting all over again, Sam awakening new sensations in him, drawing him out again in this new way, making him want and want and want. It doesn’t take very long, and soon Sam’s rolling Dean off the towels and tossing them into the floor with the dried wax.

Dean should probably help with the blankets, but his mind just can’t concentrate, so he lies there, body vibrating while Sam tucks them both in bed, foreheads and noses and lips resting together, chests and cocks pressed against each other.

So hard. They are both _so hard_.

“Sam,” Dean breathes. “Want you to fuck me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No. I-I want to do this. I want to just need it. Without getting it.”

Dean goes quiet, breathing into Sam’s mouth, feeling the thud of Sam’s heartbeat in his chest and where their dicks are touching. It matches his own. It’s the same heartbeat.

Sam needs to know that he can crave something and still survive without it. That he can resist.

So Dean ruts a little closer, feeling the skin of his thighs and chest burn, and lets himself drift off to sleep.

“You’re giving me another blow job tomorrow, then,” he mumbles.

Sam’s chuckling as Dean goes under, fully confident that Sam will be there when he wakes up, rubbing lotion on his marks.

The monsters in Dean stay mostly quiet in his dreams.

Maybe they’re learning their place.

Or maybe Sam’s just winning the fight against them.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Dean, this feels a little ridiculous.”

Dean settles into the backseat of the Impala, puts his phone on speaker and rests it on his chest. “You said you’d try.”

Sam’s voice sounds quiet even as it echoes through the silent car, the phone unable to hide the longing in it. “I know, but. I’m here in bed, and I know you’re just right outside in the parking lot, and…”

Dean grins a little. “I could go somewhere farther if that makes it easier.”

“No,” Sam says quickly. “Don’t go anywhere. Just.” His dramatic sigh almost makes Dean laugh. It’s so rare that Dean catches glimpses of his spoiled baby brother these days.

“Alright, Sammy. You can do this. You can survive a night without me, and you’ll be fine.”

Sam snorts. “I’m not exactly _without_ you. Phone sex doesn’t really scream ‘separate’. And I bet ten bucks that you come back inside as soon as we’re done.”

“Shut up, Sammy, you get the point. You need to get over this on your own. Without touching me.”

“Yeah.”

The silence feels a little too heavy. Dean wishes he could see Sam’s face. He can’t even hear Sam’s breath, and he feels so cut off that his senses start tingling, start pulling him toward the motel room, toward Sam.

“What about you?” Sam asks.

“Huh?”

“Are _you_ okay with this?”

The leather underneath his body is smooth as he squirms, old and familiar and worn enough to not make a sound and give his unease away. Dean definitely doesn’t want to be away from Sam. His skin is already missing Sam’s hands, and he’s been out here for less than ten minutes. His lips are still swollen from the hour or so they spent just kissing, making out like teenagers. He shouldn’t already be craving Sam’s touch like he’ll suffocate without it.

But as much as he doesn’t want this, the demons inside him _need_ this just as much as Sam’s do. If anything is going to get better, if anything is going to _stay_ better, they’re going to have to learn to be apart, even if just for a few hours. They can’t have breakdowns every time they’re forced to spend a few hours alone. This seems a good compromise to start.

“Just. Tell me what to do, Sam.”

A few beats of silence, and Dean can tell from Sam’s voice that he’s letting go, that the craving that led them here tonight is in control now. The sharp edges of Sam’s words feel like teeth scraping across Dean’s skin as they come through the phone.

“Take your shirt off.”

Dean puts the phone in the floorboard just beneath his head, shrugs his shirt off, and tosses it in the front seat. “Okay. Now what?”

“Can you still see my marks?”

Sam knows he can. They showered together just this morning, and the marks Sam left on him are still red, their anger just now fading to pink. Maybe tomorrow Sam can fix that and give Dean’s clothes some tender flesh to rub against when he moves.

“Yes.” Dean cringes at how much breath is in that single word. His heart is already slamming in his chest.

“Touch them. Don’t be gentle.”

Dean instantly obeys, starts at his ribs and scratches down the patterned lines, deep enough to make it sting a little. He doesn’t stop until his fingers bump against his jeans, the lines disappearing under the hem. He drags his nails back up, pinching hard when his fingers reach his nipples.

A small groan escapes him, and he can almost hear Sam’s smirk through the phone. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Dean groans, pinching harder, pulling and twisting at his nipples as the sensation travels down to his cock.

“What would you want me to do to you if you were in this bed with me?”

“Whatever you want.”

There’s a rustling sound, and Dean wonders what clothes Sam just took off. Is he bare-chested like Dean? Or did he take off his pants too? How much of that perfect skin is exposed right now? “I want _you_ to choose.”

Dean’s breath catches. Images flood his brain, images of before, images of a time when it was a toss up and he might just as easily fuck Sam as be fucked _by_ Sam, images of lazy mornings of grinding hips, images of soft touches.

But it feels like a different time, and he isn’t all that surprised to find that he doesn’t want any of that now.

“I want you inside me.”

Sam clicks his tongue. “That’s not very creative.”

Dean spreads his legs and lets his palm press against his erection through his jeans, not daring to rub until Sam gives permission. “It’s what I want. Wanna feel your cock in me.”

“Nothing else?”

“Don’t need anything else. Just my ass stretched open for you. All the time. So you could stick it in me whenever you needed to, whenever you wanted to. Want you to use me and fuck me so much I can’t think. Ever.”

Sam huffs a breath, and there’s more rustling. Dean doesn’t have to imagine this time. He knows Sam’s fingers are wrapping around his own cock, stroking so, _so_ slowly. Exactly the way Sam likes when he’s in the mood to be teased.

“Did you take lube out there with you?”

Dean nods first, then realizes he has to talk. His voice is a croak. “Yeah.”

“Get completely naked.”

Dean thinks about the fact that he’s in a parking lot, that anyone could come at any moment and see him, but it doesn’t give him a second of hesitation. It’s not like he’s never done anything risky before, and some stranger catching him masturbating wouldn’t make it in the top five. But more than that, Sam gave him an order. Doesn’t matter if this whole tiny town is crowded around the windows looking in.

He pulls the small bottle of lube from his pocket and shimmies out of his jeans and underwear, twisting himself around until there’s only leather touching his skin as he lies back down, awkwardly folded into the seat as best he can.

“Okay,” he says.

“Slick up your fingers and do whatever you want to yourself. But you have to tell me what you’re doing, and you can’t come yet.”

Dean slowly drips the lube over his fingers, then carefully teases himself, just his fingertips brushing up and down the length of his cock before wrapping around and lightly squeezing.

“What are you doing?”

“Just…just sliding my hand up and down.”

“Go faster.”

Dean does, gripping just a bit harder, thumb rubbing over the head. “ _Fuck_.”

“You aren’t going to do this on your own, are you?” There’s a smile in Sam’s voice.

Dean manages his own grin when he answers. “Don’t want to, Sammy. Want _you_ to tell me.”

“Keep jacking yourself, but play with your balls, too. Roll ‘em around.”

Dean groans the second he cups his balls, so sensitive, already feeling the pressure of a coming orgasm. He rolls and gently tugs, his other hand still moving up and down in the same rhythm Sam always uses when it’s his hands on Dean.

“Fuck, _Sam_.”

“Shhh. Calm down. Just keep going.”

Sam doesn’t sound much better than Dean, and another rush of blood pulses and swells in Dean’s cock at his desperate tone. He pictures Sam’s face, teeth just barely cutting into his bottom lip, snarling just slightly, nostrils flaring as he watches Dean.

“ _Sam_ …” It’s a warning and a plea.

“Okay, stop. I don’t want you to touch your cock anymore.”

Dean gratefully pulls his hand away, presses his feet against the window and curls his toes, trying to relieve some of the pressure. He doesn’t give a fuck if anyone sees.

“Open yourself up.”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me. Start with two fingers, and shove them up your ass.”

With shaking hands, Dean manages to get more lube on his fingers before spreading his legs, one propped on top of the front seat now, totally open and exposed like Sam’s right there watching.

“Oh, God,” he groans, sliding two fingers into his tight hole, the slick stretch burning in all the right ways.

“Tell me what it feels like.”

“Not as good as you,” Dean gasps, scissoring his fingers open. The monsters inside of him need it harder, need it to be Sam’s cock, shoving inside him and splitting him apart.

“Then you’re not pushing hard enough. Make it hurt the way I would.”

“Fuck, Sam, I c-can’t. It’s not you.”

Sam’s voice is gentle, but the dangerous kind of gentle that gives Dean goosebumps. “Do it anyway. Add another finger. Get yourself wet and open.”

“Wh-why? What’re you…ohhh….what’re you gonna make me do next?”

“Tell me what it feels like,” Sam says again, totally ignoring Dean’s question.

Dean’s wrist aches, but he doesn’t dare slow down. He thrusts his three fingers again and again, cock jerking against his stomach with each push, sweat pouring off his skin as the windows fog up. “Hot. Wanna touch my dick. Wanna come.”

For the next few minutes, Dean says nothing, just moans and whimpers and whines, back arching and legs trembling. He can hear Sam breathing, a grunt coming through the phone every now and then, and fuck Dean wishes he could see him, could feel him, could get rid of his own fingers and offer himself up to Sam.

Dean’s so lost in it that he doesn’t register the noise coming from Sam’s end of the phone until it’s too loud, until it’s a little off somehow. He’s barely able to slow his hand down before the car door is flying open, Sam’s rough hands pulling his out of the way, phone clattering to the floorboard with Dean’s. His jeans are open, cock already out, and he yanks Dean to the edge of the seat and shoves right in, one arm bracing himself on the roof of the car, the other reaching for Dean’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, snapping his hips and closing his eyes.

Dean watches him, whole body going lax in relief that Sam’s where he’s supposed to be, that Dean’s full and being used like he wants to be, like he _needs_ to be. Sam slams into him again and again, the cold air from the parking lot floating over Dean’s skin and reminding him that anyone could see, and that would be okay right now because Sam says so, because Sam’s getting what he needs.

Eventually, Sam leans down and falls on top of Dean, starts to rut deeper, growling in Dean’s ear. “Couldn’t stay in there. Needed your ass, needed to fuck this hole. It’s mine. Not ever gonna be without it.”

Dean lets his hands fall to Sam’s hips, just grazing the skin as Sam moves back and forth. “Yours, Sammy. Always gonna give it to you.”

Sam’s hand keeps working Dean’s cock, and when he bites Dean’s ear and tells him to come, Dean does instantly, a warm sticky mess between their stomachs, his groan loud enough to wake anyone who isn’t already watching through the motel windows.

Sam pounds into his ass a few more times before going still, and Dean can feel Sam throbbing inside of him, his own dick giving one last weak pulse at the sensation of Sam filling him up.

When Sam catches his breath, Dean expects to be led back into the room. Instead, Sam climbs into the backseat and shuts the door behind him. With some digging elbows and grunts, he puts himself on the seat, lying down with Dean sprawled on top of him, both of them still sticky with sweat and come and whatever else is purged out of their systems in moments like this.

For a long time, they lie there, tangled and squished, hands in hair and mouths kissing every now and then.

“Why are we out here?” Dean asks.

“Feels more like home than in there,” Sam shrugs.

Dean can’t argue with that, so he kisses Sam again instead. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Wish I could have done that without coming out here. But. Yeah.”

Dean shakes his head. “We’ve got plenty of time to try again. You’re still clean, and that’s what matters.”

“And you?”

“I’m good, Sammy.”

And he means it. His mind is wonderfully blank, blissfully quiet and steady, as he drifts to sleep with Sam’s thudding heartbeat in his ears.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam still grabs Dean’s hips harder than he ever did before, and Dean still spreads his legs easier than he ever did before, but it’s getting better.

Dean still wears Sam’s marks, scratched in by fingernails when the wax burns start to fade. But it’s been a whole week, and there haven’t been any desperate nights. No withdrawal-trembling hands, no hellish nightmares to be beaten away. Just the two of them, fucking until they fall asleep because they want to, because they love each other, because that’s who they are and who they’ve always been.

Maybe Dean really does start to feel the monsters rumbling, or maybe he just knows this is too good and too easy to last. Either way, he’s itchy under his skin tonight, for the first time in seven days. The open road in front of him doesn’t feel like enough freedom, and he can’t drive fast enough to get away from his own thoughts.

Sam doesn’t look any better. He’s not shaky, exactly. Just restless. He keeps glancing over at Dean like he wants to make sure he’s still there, keeps bumping their knees together like he needs to touch but doesn’t want Dean to know.

The motel is a million times more stifling than the breeze coming through the Impala windows, but Dean has to stop. He’s been dozing in the driver’s seat for at least an hour, and he needs to sleep.

Stripping down before bed, Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sam looks down into his duffel bag and shrugs his shoulders. “You need to shave.”

Dean rubs at his face. Sam’s right. Might as well do that now, while he’s trying to convince his mind to settle down enough to sleep.

The bathroom smells like industrial cleaner, which is almost as good as anything else in Dean’s opinion. At least it’s clean. He pulls the shaving cream and razor out of his bag and turns on the water without really looking.

“Here.” Sam’s voice is right in his ear, soft and warm. “You’re a zombie. Let me do that.”

Dean turns around and Sam’s right there, wearing only his blue jeans, bare toes bumping together as he reaches around him for a washcloth.

Dean closes his eyes and leans in, lets the scent of Sam all but consume him, bodies sagging together while the water runs.

“Lean back.”

Dean obeys without opening his eyes, and Sam puts the warm, wet washcloth over his face, lets the steam seep into his skin, and fuck that feels good. Sam leaves it there while he kisses Dean’s neck, light and slow and sweet. No words, just his lips drifting over Dean’s skin, reverent and steady.

The washcloth comes off and Sam coats Dean’s face with shaving cream, eyes smiling as he dabs a tiny bit on Dean’s nose just to be obnoxious. Dean doesn’t mind, doesn’t even roll his eyes. Just watches.

Sam is so beautiful.

Dean knows that, has always known that. But he’s still struck by it every time he looks at him.

This close, Dean can see every line. Sam’s jaw is harder than it used to be, lips pressed thinner, eyes ancient. But the teenage flush on his cheeks is the same as it’s always been. His hair still falls in his eyes because he refuses to get a reasonable haircut. That mole on his cheek still begs for Dean to kiss it.

Dean’s never seen anything that comes close to comparing to Sam. He knows he never will.

Carefully, gently, Sam’s huge hands drag the razor over Dean’s skin.

There’s still demon blood running through him. Dean knows there’s still a monster in there, one that would just as easily cut his throat than shave his face. But he leans his head back and offers himself to Sam anyway.

Maybe it’s an act of trust. Maybe it’s a lack of self-preservation. Either way, Dean can’t look away from Sam, lips parted as he concentrates, eyes looking like he’s memorizing each cell of Dean’s face as he rids it of hair.

Somewhere along the way, Dean realizes he’s hard, can feel that Sam is too, pressed up against his hip. But it isn’t the normal flame burning inside of him. It’s a slow simmer, like sunshine in the middle of summer that he wants to lazily revel in.

The warm washcloth feels almost hot on Dean’s sensitive skin when Sam wipes off the leftover shaving cream.

“There. All done.”

Dean isn’t sure why, but he feels the need to whisper, even as he teases. “How do I look?”

Sam opens his mouth, but then closes it, swallowing hard and blinking fast. Dean feels the blush burn in his cheeks at that, and is grateful when Sam turns away, breaking the spell.

“Come on. Bed.”

Dean doesn’t argue.

They lie down in unison, noses and mouths touching as Sam’s hips slot between Dean’s thighs where they belong.

This time is different. This time is soft. Slow. And Dean isn’t sure he can handle it, isn’t sure he can feel Sam’s breath on his skin, isn’t sure he can stand to be looked at like Sam’s looking at him. He isn’t sure he’s worthy of this again.

“Dean…”

His voice trails off, like there’s more to say, but the words won’t come.

“I know. Me too.”

Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck, kissing and sucking, and Dean knows some of the moisture there is from Sam’s tears instead of his tongue, can feel the shuddering of his chest as he fights to keep his breathing steady.

Undressing is the quick chore it always is, no fanfare or stripteases tonight, just squirming limbs until their clothes are in a pile on the floor and there’s nothing between them, not even air.

Dean doesn’t mean to groan so loud, but Sam’s warmth feels so fucking good he can’t help it. It’s not the burning hot furnace it usually is, doesn’t feel scary or feverish. It feels safe, and Dean hasn’t felt safe in so long.

They move slowly, like they’re a little drunk, and maybe Dean is. Maybe he’s too tired and that’s why this all feels a little overwhelming. Sam’s fingers play over the marks on Dean’s skin and it’s like he’s touching his insides, like he’s grazing over the broken parts of Dean and trying to smooth out their rough edges.

Sam doesn’t waste time, slicking himself up with spit even as they’re still kissing. Dean’s still loose from their pit stop this afternoon. It’s one push and Sam’s where he’s supposed to be.

Neither of them make a sound. As Sam pushes deeper, grinding his hipbones into Dean, they stare at each other silently, unable to form words and too afraid to break this perfect spell with any kind of noise. The moment feels too important, too sacred for that.

It’s Dean who finally moves. He pulls his legs back until he’s almost bent in half, then pumps his hips up as best he can, trying to give Sam some friction, trying to fuck himself on Sam’s cock from underneath. Sam doesn’t let him try very long before he’s rolling them over and sitting Dean on his lap.

Dean can’t remember a time he’s ever ridden Sam like this, and as he sinks down on Sam’s cock, thighs clamped around those narrow hips, he feels exposed, bare in a way he’s never been before. Still, he can’t look away, can’t close his eyes and hide from it.

Sam’s hands roam all over his thighs, his hips, his chest, slide around to his ass. Dean groans when they squeeze, start to pull him back and forth. There’s something dangerous in Sam’s grip, in the way his teeth are showing, but he holds it back, pushes it down and stays relaxed beneath Dean.

He can already feel the need to come, the pressure building as he moves faster. Sam watches him, still soft and smiling when he moves a hand to Dean’s cock, stroking lazy and almost sweet.

So many things run through Dean’s mind. He wants Sam to know that he’s gorgeous and perfect and Dean doesn’t care if he fucked up and that they will never, ever be apart again, Dean will see to that. But it all gets lost in Dean’s sighs and deep breaths, and he can’t get them out. Probably for the best. They wouldn’t sound as good out loud as they do in his mind, and Sam can feel it all, anyway.

Sam sits up, a little too fast, and they laugh a little when their chins bump. Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s neck and lets his little brother roll him over again, spreads wide when he’s on his back so Sam can have every little bit of him.

The orgasm is as soft and slow as everything else tonight. Sam covers Dean’s entire body with his own, foreheads together, fingers entwining on either side of Dean’s head. Sam squeezes, holds on as he thrusts a few more times, the heat and weight of his stomach enough for Dean’s cock.

They come together, still not loud, Sam holding back a grunt as Dean’s whole body goes rigid. They rock through it, sweat smearing between them, Dean’s toes curling into the back of Sam’s legs, like every bit of them needs to be touching for as long as possible.

When Sam’s done shaking, he lowers himself back down into the bend of Dean’s neck, his favorite place tonight, and whispers for Dean to go to sleep.

Dean’s not in the mood to argue, and he ignores the flash in Sam’s eyes as he nods.

Just before he drifts off, Sam mumbles something that sounds very much like “love you”, but Dean’s too far gone to be sure.

He wakes up with a jolt, certain that it hasn’t been very long at all since he fell asleep. Instinctively, he rolls over to touch Sam, but the bed is empty. Cold.

Fuck.

Dean sits up with ice in his veins, knowing exactly what’s happened. He shouldn’t have gone to sleep, should have known that tonight wasn’t enough. He shouldn’t have ignored that gut feeling he had all day. Sam had tried to tell him he was in trouble.

Dean’s out of bed before he even has a plan, pulling on his jeans and boots and grabbing his keys.

There’s more he can do than sit and wait. He’s not going to let Sam do this if he can help it.

This time, Dean’s going to find him. And he’s going to bring him home.


	8. Chapter 8

There’s only one bar in this little town, and that’s where any demons looking to party would be tonight.

Dean looks at it from the parking lot, knows Sam’s in there, just a few feet away from being dragged back to the motel, but Dean can’t bring himself to go in right away. His hands are shaking, breath sticking in his chest because he isn’t sure he’s ready for what he’ll find.

He’s seen the aftermath of the blood binges, and he’s seen Sam when he’s hungry for it. But he hasn’t seen him during this part, during the actual hunt. Sam might be out of his mind, might put up a real fight, and Dean doesn’t know how far he’s willing to go or if he’s prepared for what he might have to do.

But he figures sitting in the car ain’t gonna fix anything, so he pushes one foot in front of the other until the crowd is loud around him and he can smell the beer and sweat like it’s clinging to his clothes.

Sam’s at the bar alone.

Good. Alone is good. Easier.

Dean slides onto the stool next to him and doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t want to scare Sam off, and he also just doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Dean points to Sam’s glass when the bartender raises his eyebrows, then downs the dark liquid placed in front of him without really tasting it. The burn is still there, though, and it gives him the courage to look at his brother.

Dean expects the desperate hunger in Sam’s eyes, and he expects the calm, still focus of the rest of his body, but it still surprises him. It’s too hard a look for his sweet Sammy, too detached for his kind baby brother.

“You here to save me?”

The words are snarled through clenched teeth, sarcastic and mean, but there’s still a break at the end, a tremble so small only Dean would hear it. Sam still wants to be saved.

“Don’t know how,” Dean admits, leaning closer and holding his breath until he sees that Sam doesn’t back away.

Sam’s eyes dart around the bar and land on a woman playing darts, all tight jeans and low cut tank top, laughing at some guy’s joke while he stares at her cleavage. She’s meant to look like a townie, like just one of the guys or maybe the girl next door, but Dean knows instantly that this is who Sam’s after. Her laugh is too bored, her lingering brush against the man’s arm too calculated.

“Demon,” Dean says unnecessarily, inwardly rolling his eyes at how dumb that sounded.

“Obviously.”

“Don’t do this, Sam.”

“Why not? She’s hot.”

Dean ignores the insult because it’s empty and they both know it. “Just come back to the motel.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam almost sounds like he means it. “I tried. I really did.”

“You haven’t done anything yet. Just come on.”

Their eyes meet, and Sam is there for just a second, just long enough for Dean’s heart to surge. And then Sam’s on his feet. Only he doesn’t go for the demon. He grabs Dean’s hand instead and heads to the back emergency exit.

Like every back door in every seedy bar in Nowhere, USA, the alarm doesn’t sound, and they slip out to the back of the building, cool air clearing Dean’s head a little.

Before he can ask Sam what the hell they’re doing, his chest is shoved up against the brick, hard and biting even through his shirt. Sam’s arm stays firm in the middle of his back, pinning him there, breath hot on Dean’s neck.

“Fine. You don’t want me to take her. What if I take you?”

This is not a game or a test. Sam’s serious. And as much as that scares the shit out of Dean, it scares him more that he considers the question as if it’s an actual possibility.

Teeth scrape across his skin, right over his pulse, stop and dig in just a little. They rest there like a challenge, like they’re daring him to move, while Sam’s hands reach around for Dean’s belt.

They get shoved down just enough for his ass to be exposed, just enough for Sam to undo his own belt and shove his cock right up against Dean’s hole.

“You’re still messy from earlier. Oughta keep you like this all the time.”

Dean presses his forehead against the brick and lets the rough cold of it seep into his skin. “I told you, you can. You should. I need it, too.”

“Yeah? You want it right here? Like this?”

Sam pushes in hard and brutal.

“Fuck. Y-yeah. Like this.”

Instantly, Dean can feel the monster inside himself again, can feel it wake up and stretch to meet Sam.

Sam will win. He’ll beat it back a little more. Maybe someday, he’ll beat it until it’s dead.

Sam thrusts again and again, holding Dean up against the wall, using his ass like it’s just a warm, wet hole. And maybe that’s all it is tonight, and maybe that doesn’t even matter. Dean just focuses on keeping his legs beneath him, on not falling down. Not that he would hit the ground even if his knees gave out. Sam’s grip isn’t letting him go anywhere.

A new, darker shiver shoots up Dean’s spine when Sam’s teeth find his pulse again. This time, they don’t stop. This time, they sink in, sharp and painful and sudden, breaking skin.

Sam fucks into him hard and fast, tongue licking over the blood dripping out of Dean’s wound. He groans like it’s nectar, breath hot and fast, whole body flexing, speeding up and turning frantic.

The door opens, and the bartender steps out, cigarette freezing in midair, halfway to his mouth when he sees them.

Sam doesn’t stop moving. Dean whimpers, isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.

“Let him watch,” Sam growls, and the man doesn’t look away. “Let him see exactly what we are.”

Fuck. The man shifts his weight, like maybe he’s going to go back inside, but then he relaxes, a leer stretching across his face.

“That’s right,” Sam says. “You can watch while I fuck him. He’s pretty, isn’t he?”

The man grins wider and palms his crotch.

“He’s mine.” Sam’s voice goes hard, no longer an invitation. “See that blood? It’s mine.”

Dean’s whole body thrills at the words, at the claim, his cock throbbing in his jeans because it’s true. He is Sam’s.

The man watches while Sam fucks him, licking over the blood as it smears down his neck. He grunts a couple of times, probably creams his jeans before he decides he’s had enough, and lights his cigarette to watch the two of them finish.

Sam whispers in Dean’s ear, low enough that the man probably can’t hear him now. “There. Is this wild enough for you? Dangerous enough? Will this get you to sleep tonight?”

“Does it work for you?” he hisses back.

“No. But this does.” Sam smacks Dean’s ass, then reaches around to shove his hand down Dean’s pants and stroke him hard and fast.

Dean isn’t sure when Sam comes. His own orgasm rips through him so hard and fast that he feels like he’s dying, the brick scratches against his hands and his face as he falls into it, and he may even black out for a few seconds. When his mind clears, his cock is soft and his ass is sticky, Sam still panting against the back of his neck.

The door opens and closes as the man goes back inside, but Dean doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Sam?”

“Motel.”

Dean doesn’t try to talk again as they zip up and get out of there as fast as possible.

********

They’ve been back at the motel for an hour, sitting on the edges of the bed without talking.

“Sam?” Dean breaks the silence when he can’t take it anymore, when he has to know exactly what’s going on in Sam’s mind.

Sam’s nostrils flare, and then he’s shaking, head in his hands as he hides his face from Dean. “I couldn’t stop.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“Why the fuck not? That was…I don’t even have words for that.”

Dean’s mind is suddenly calm, certain and sure as he scoots closer to Sam. “Do you regret it?”

“Of course I do.”

“That’s not-“ Dean stops and pulls Sam’s hands away from his face. “When you were fucking me. Did you enjoy it?”

Sam nods. “I always do. Doesn’t make it right.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t.”

Dean stands up and gets a beer just to have something to do with his hands, just so he doesn’t have to look at Sam when he says what he’s thinking. “I don’t want to tell you about Hell. I don’t want to ever think about it again. What I need, what I really need, is for you to fuck me so hard, for you to take up so much space inside me, that there’s no room for Hell or anything it left behind. And that’s what you did tonight.”

He can feel Sam staring, but he still keeps his eyes on his own hands opening the bottle.

“What about you?”

“I wanted that girl.” Sam’s voice is quiet, just as raw as Dean’s. “Even when I took you out back, I wanted her.”

“Do you still want her?” Dean isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.

“No. I’m okay right now. But Dean…”

“What? You grossed out that you let someone watch? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, Sammy, we’ve done a lot kinkier shit than that.”

“I bit you.”

It cuts right through Dean’s attempt at a joke and sobers him entirely. “Did it help?”

“I don’t know. I just know I needed to hurt something, and you wanted me to hurt you.”

“That’s not the same as demon blood.”

“No, it isn’t. But you told me that all we needed was time for it to get out of my system. Tonight was one more night I didn’t give in.”

Dean is suddenly exhausted. Bone-deep weariness settles in his brain, in every cell of his body, so complete and consuming that he thinks he’d take crying over it if given the choice.

“Alright, then.”

Dean sets his beer down on the table and settles onto the bed, fully dressed, too tired to even take his shoes off. Somewhere just this side of falling asleep, Sam lies down next to him, tucks his head in the crook of Dean’s neck and kisses at the dried blood there.

One more night he didn’t give in.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s been three hours. Maybe four. Dean’s muscles are screaming from being unable to move, tied down to the bed.

Sam took his time teasing. Dean’s already had two orgasms, one from Sam’s slow, wet mouth, the other from the flogger and the marks still screaming fire on his skin, and he expects the next one to actually kill him.

He’s ready for it.

The monsters are fighting, struggling inside of him, beaten back by Sam. Dean can feel them losing control, can feel Sam winning, can feel all the rage he’s holding back start to weaken and loosen its grip. The more he gives himself to Sam, the more he stops trying to save and control him, the more he lets this be about him, the better he feels.

Until it’s over. He knows somewhere deep inside that the second he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll feel guilty. He should be working harder for Sam, should be finding a solution that’s more than a small band-aid over a slit throat. Sam can’t hang on forever, and it’s selfish of Dean to keep him in this one day a time routine.

But right now, he couldn’t stop this if he wanted to, and all of his reservations get pushed down with his monsters, ready and waiting to be killed with Sam’s violent touch.

“Sammy, please…you gotta do something. Stop just staring at me.”

Sam’s lips curl up in a smirk, or maybe a snarl, and he scrapes his nails over the welt on Dean’s hip bone. “Greedy.”

Dean doesn’t answer, just thrusts his hips up as best he can with his wrists and ankles stretched to the four corners of the bed and tied down. Sam wraps long, graceful fingers around Dean’s cock and strokes slow, playing with Dean as he drags this out.

“I can’t decide how I want to fuck you.”

“Then fuck me a whole bunch of ways,” Dean suggests.

Sam grins, leans down and rewards Dean’s answer with a sloppy, rough kiss, all tongue and teeth and a growl deep in his chest. “Wanna eat you alive. All the time. You know that?”

“And I thought that was the point. You can. I want you to.”

Sam nips Dean’s ear lobe, then bends down and bites at Dean’s collar bone, digging teeth in until he breaks skin. It’s slow and deliberate, an aching pain that makes Dean clench his hands into fists. Sam sucks at his skin, licks at his blood, groans and slides over Dean to rub their cocks together.

“Fuck, Sam…”

Sam pulls away, licks his lips and stares down at Dean with wild eyes. “I don’t know what’s more fucked up. How much I enjoy that, or how much you do.”

“Does it matter?”

Sam tilts his head for a minute, then gets up and unties Dean’s ropes.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because I figured out how I want to fuck you, and I want you to be able to move.”

Dean starts to sit up, but Sam stops him with a hand pushing at his stomach, gets on his knees and pulls Dean’s legs around his hips.

“This? All the ways you could take me, and you want me in fuckin’ missionary?”

“Uh-huh,” Sam nods. He smacks his hand down over one of Dean’s nipples, the sting of it radiating through the flogger marks and making Dean cry out. “You got a problem?”

“No,” Dean moans. “Just fuck me hard, Sammy.”

“Always.”

Sam’s slick cock slides in Dean’s tight hole, stretching him open with the first hard thrust. Dean closes his eyes, hands instantly going to Sam’s arms and grabbing hold, digging his fingernails in. His legs curl around Sam and pull his ass deeper, splitting himself open as Sam looks at him, stares down and watches just how much Dean loves this.

“Please.”

Dean’s fingernails break skin, and that’s the moment. Dean can see it. Sam’s control falls away and the monster is there, raging in all the colors of Sam’s eyes. His hips snap forward and he’s an animal, powerful and hungry, fucking Dean until it hurts, until Dean thinks there’s a permanent impression of Sam’s cock in his ass.

Yes. This.

Sam ruts for a while, changing the angle and moving Dean around until it’s as deep as he can get it, until he has the right leverage to fuck into him deep and brutal.

But it’s not enough.

Suddenly, Sam pulls away for a fraction of a second, there’s a noise from the nightstand, and then he goes still inside of Dean. There’s a knife at Dean’s throat, cold metal threatening to cut into his skin.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

The word comes out of Dean with no thought or hesitation. It’s the truth. He knows Sam will cut him. He knows he could bleed out right here in this motel. But he trusts Sam to take what he needs. And Dean has no problem giving it.

Sam sits back on his heels, cock still in Dean’s ass as Dean’s legs drape around his hips. The tip of the knife slips over his Adam’s apple, pushes in a little at the hollow of his throat. Sam drags it over to his ear, then slides it across to the other, so close to slicing his throat that Dean thinks for a second that maybe he has.

But there’s no blood when he lifts the knife, and Dean continues to breathe.

He makes the first cut at Dean’s collar bone. The sharp knife slides through his skin like he’s made of butter, and the pain is more heat than actual pain, piercing in waves that take Dean’s breath away.

Sam shifts his hips a little, settling in, and Dean can’t resist bucking his hips, fucking himself on Sam’s cock.

“Don’t. Be still.”

Dean immediately freezes, closes his eyes, and waits.

Sam doesn’t follow the same pattern Dean’s gotten used to. The marks made by the flogger and the wax stay untouched as Sam cuts into Dean’s skin, over and over. But Dean knows Sam isn’t just playing, isn’t just cutting wherever the knife happens to land. There will be a new pattern for Dean to look at when Sam’s finished, another claim Sam’s made on Dean’s body.

“Maybe I should carve my initials into your cock.”

Dean’s eyes fly open at that, but it’s not fear that makes his heart slam harder in his chest, and his dick throb and jerk against Sam’s hand. Sam lets Dean’s cock feel the sharp blade, but he doesn’t cut.

Dean almost comes anyway.

Sam lets the knife fall to the bed, then drags his fingers through the mess he’s made of Dean’s chest. Dean can feel the blood, warm and sticky, pooling in the dips of his body as it oozes out of the cuts.

When Sam lifts his hand, his fingers are coated, ruby red droplets dripping of the tips. Dean watches, mesmerized, as Sam starts to move, to thrust his hips and push into Dean again and again. His tongue slides out of his mouth and licks at Dean’s blood.

Holy fuck, his face. Sam’s eyes close, hips moving faster, a satisfied groan like nothing Dean’s ever heard rumbling out of him as he sucks his fingers clean. Dean’s never seen this before, never watched as Sam drinks from him.

Dean isn’t sure what makes him come. Maybe it’s the noise Sam makes, or the simple sight of his own blood dripping down Sam’s chin. Maybe it’s the thought of it, of Sam getting high on this primal part of him, even though his blood is human and has nothing to offer. Or maybe it’s just the weak haze that comes with losing blood.

Whatever it is, Sam hits Dean’s prostate with his next thrust and Dean comes untouched, mixing white with red, creating a bigger mess across his stomach for Sam to dip his fingers into.

Sam groans as Dean clenches around him, takes one last lick before grabbing Dean’s hips and holding him still, stuttering hips coming to a stop as he finds his own release.

It’s like a second orgasm for Dean every time, to feel Sam pulsing inside of him, to feel himself being filled up, to feel the demons inside of him cower at the force of Sam.

They collapse, breathing together until their hearts slow and they can think again.

“We’re gonna have to sleep in the floor or something,” Dean complains.

“There’s an extra blanket in one of the drawers. We’ll just strip the sheets. Come on.”

Sam slaps Dean’s ass as he stands up, and Dean winces even as he arches his back into the sting. Sam gently pushes him toward the bathroom and turns on the hot water.

Now that the monsters are quiet, neither of them feel the need to speak. Dean stands with the spray at his back while Sam washes him off, careful not to rub too hard, fingers calmly checking that none of the cuts are too deep, that the bleeding has mostly stopped and Dean doesn’t need anything other than some ointment on the few long cuts.

Dean looks down at one point and follows Sam’s fingers as they trace over the cuts on his lower stomach, just above his cock, soft and satisfied now.

S.W.

Sam carved his initials above Dean’s dick.

Dean lets out one loud laugh, then pulls Sam’s face up and kisses him hard, pulling him close and letting his fingers get lost in Sam’s hair.

The monsters disappear then, like they were never there to begin with.

They were, of course. And they’ll be there in a few hours, after they’ve slept and come down from their sex-high. They aren’t really gone.

But this? This moment, lips sealed together like neither of them need air anymore? It’s almost more powerful than the fucking, silences the monsters in a different way. Dean wishes it was enough. That it would last.

Sam pulls away and buries his face in Dean’s neck.

“Love you,” he mumbles.

Dean tries to say it back, can’t form the words around the lump in his throat, but Sam knows.

They stand there until the water runs cold, then slide under the extra blanket on a bare mattress, sheets balled up in the corner. Under the covers, Sam reaches for his hand and tangles their fingers together.

Monsters are always hungry. And theirs will never go away.

But it doesn’t matter. Not as long as they have each other to keep feeding them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is my lifeblood. XOXOXO


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